


Haven’t you heard?

by Vexfulfolly



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), Z Nation (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, Gen, wonky timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 14:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21101360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexfulfolly/pseuds/Vexfulfolly
Summary: They say good things come in threes. ‘Three time’s the charm!’ Three ring circuses, the rule of thirds, the three little pigs: all good things come in threes. But what about things that come in pairs? Those twins from the shinning, terrible twos, twin peaks, the sniper and the cyclops: all admittedly weird and creepy shit.Funnily enough, the two of them met three years after The Fall.





	Haven’t you heard?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Cyclops and The Sniper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12865098) by [IceCreamKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceCreamKing/pseuds/IceCreamKing), [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 

> I’ve really been thinking about Z Nation as I binge the entirety of TWD in preparation for S10. As you’ll notice, the time lines of both shows have been changed slightly— if the vagueness bothers you, please stay tuned. All will be revealed in due time. 
> 
> Thank you for tuning in!

They say good things come in threes. _Three time’s the charm!_ Three ring circuses, the rule of thirds, the three little pigs: all good things come in threes. But what about things that come in pairs? Those twins from the shinning, terrible twos, twin peaks, the sniper and the cyclops: all admittedly weird and creepy shit.

Funnily enough, they met three years after The Fall.

A nameless boy was flittering through the trees, his feet scrambling for purchase against gnarled roots and uneven ground. He had nothing on him besides the sweat on his back, a hat, and the copious amount of bandages wrapped around his head. His vision was poor, and his depth perception even worse, but still he persisted. The sounds of the dead followed him through the trees, the blaze of fire chasing his back.

He was alone. So, very alone.

He’d been separated from his group and maimed, hence those pesky facial bandages. There was nowhere for the boy to go besides away. If he wanted to regroup, he’d need to do it elsewhere if he wanted a chance.

It felt like he’d stumbled through the forest forever before the tree line broke and gave way to the ramshackle excuse for civilization that he called home. The sun had made its way across the sky— almost as if bored by the boy’s progress. Escaping from the forest was one of the most cathartic experiences the boy had ever lived through. Of course, he was riddled by dread, pain, and desperation; but for that one moment, the weight of the world eased off his shoulders.

He even stopped for a moment, marveling at the place he would admittedly need to stay for the night. There was no way he’d be able to travel all night, and he wasn’t taking any chances passing this place up. He sighed a breath of relief.

His peace lasted only a moment, because the twang of a string of some kind ended it rather abruptly. ‘It’ referring to the infected that was ready to take a piece out of the boy. The creature made a gurgle of what could only be described as surprise before it crumpled, never to feast again.

The front of its head had caved in, but there hadn’t been the sound of a gun: just the almost-not-quite-a-bow-string twang. Despite not seeing a person for miles, he willed himself forward, away from the trees and towards the buildings, in hopes of a place to sleep for the night. Oily blood had splashed onto his face, mixing with the sweat dripping from his hair.

_I could really go for a shower. Right about now._

The town square laid out before him looked like it had some sort of mini apartment complex—nothing like the ones in Atlanta—a grocery store, a few knickknack shops, and a restaurant or three: all abandoned. The sky was starting to fade from daylight to darkness, so the boy forced his wobbling gait to go faster.

The hiss of the undead, almost as if summoned by the sound of their fallen brother, started to grow louder. Every step was a struggle. Every second of light was a blessing.

The boy treaded forward uneasily, but as his boots met concrete, he couldn’t care less about whoever had felled the walker. Because that was the question wasn’t it? Whoever this Good Samaritan was, they’d had the ammo and the sense to save his life: a rare commodity these days.

Or perhaps there was no mystery man, and the boy was finally losing his mind. Maybe he’d killed the walker and lost whatever tool he’d scavenged, and merely forgotten what he’d done. That alternative, sadly, was more likely than a helpful stranger.

Now freed from the trees and safely across the road, the boy spared a glance behind him and paled at the sight of at least a dozen walkers emerging from the forest. He tried to pick up his pace, but wheezing in effort and drenched in sweat, he didn’t have much more in him. The boy hobbled his way through the center of the town, passing cars and overturned shopping carts along the way. A small part of him yearned to stop and pick through them, but the much larger part of him screamed _don’t you you dare._

Caught up in his conflicting emotions, he missed the subtle groan of a walker wedged between two vehicles, and as he passed by it reached out. The decrepit hand latched on to his, as a low growl spilled from its rotting face. The boy yelped in surprise and tried to wrench himself away, but the force of the walker was too strong for a mere twelve year old child to overcome.

The thing leaned forward as it pulled— preventing the boy from running, while forcing him to devote all his energy to breaking free.

As he struggled to escape, the noises of everything around him started to mount. The endless scream of a starving dead, the joint shouts of others, the high pitched whine that sounded like a cornered animal (that he’d later learn came from himself), all mixed with the cicada’s songs. It was one big, fucked up, orchestra. The music reached a crescendo as the boy found himself splattered with blood— the tip of a blade poking through the puckered flesh of the walker’s eye.

The creature’s grip instantly slacked as the figure crumpled. The boy finally ripped his arm away, but instead of dragging himself to pseudo-safety, he stayed behind awaiting the sickening sound of rending flesh. Whoever had just saved his life seemed rather keen on it; his chances were better off with his savior than on his own.

Through the darkness, the boy peered at his guardian angel: a tall, lanky looking silhouette, decked from head to toe in dark colored clothes. Their face was covered, and he couldn’t see their hair; they remained a mystery even longer. They stood atop one of the cars that the walker was pinned between, the uneven glints of metal flashing in the dying light. The figure didn’t say anything, only roughly grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him up. The boy didn’t even have time to get his bearings before the figure, fist closed around his collar, started traipsing across the roofs of the cars.

Come to think of it, they were arranged in a sort of shape— most of them sitting nose to bumper. By the time the duo crawled across the third car, the boy chanced a look backwards and nearly panicked at the sight. At least twenty walkers had entered the town square and there were at least four passing the spot he’d been pinned at.

A sharp tug on his shirt by the figure brought his eyes forward again just in time to prevent a stumble.

They walked (in the boy’s case, hobbled) over eight more conspicuously places cars before they reached the farthest building from the forest. The final car was pressed against the exterior, smooth bricks leading upward about three stories. It was then that the figure released him and jumped up. With the added height from the car, their fingers were just able to grasp a jerry-rigged ladder.

The thing was made of scavenged ropes and scrap metal, which was hooked on a ledge in the wall. The whole setup looked well used, but not worn, like the figure hadn’t been here long. The figure unfurled the rope and snatched the boy’s hand and placed it on the rope. The two instantly became locked in a battle of wills; the boy didn’t want to climb the (rickety) ladder first, he had no assurances this person wouldn’t kill him, and the figure wanted him on top of the building for whatever reason. Neither of them were willing to yield. When the boy didn’t move, the figure pushed him rather stiffly after a rather loud walker growl.

It seemed like the figure wanted him alive, something to Boy was in mutual agreement with. For now at least. The boy may have been weak, but he stood his ground (chest heaving and knees weak from exertion). Their little game could only last so long, so before the boy ran out of energy or trust, he gave in. With a huff, he started up the rope ladder (if it could even be called that).

Four or five rungs up the sad excuse for a ladder that bowstring noise startled him. Pausing in his ascent, he shot a look towards the source of the noise, only to settle on the figure. They held a slingshot, already loaded, and let the projectile fly. Surely enough, when they released, the snap of the tubing matched the noise he’d been hearing. The figure was picking off the walkers that were getting too close, and with the way the figure was backing up, they seemed uncomfortable with the lack of space between themself and the dead.

The boy resumed his climbing after the third shot broke the air. By the time his fingers wrapped around the ledge on the top of the building, the heavy tugs that meant the figure was climbing up had begun. Pulling himself up and over the lip into the roof was so taxing that tremors ran from his shoulders to his elbows, and he collapsed.

Not a few seconds later did the figure vault over the lip like it were nothing— like he could do it all day.

The boy didn’t need to check whether or not the dead were thinning out: he could hear the groans loud and clear from three stories up. There was no way the boy could’ve outrun them for long. In between gasps for breath, he managed to utter a “thank you.”

The figure, who’d been messing around with the various bags and boxes strewn across the roof paused at his words. They threw a glance over their shoulder, as if contemplating something. They looked away, back towards what they were doing, and said nothing. They rustled about for a few more moments before stopping entirely.

“Name?” They asked, voice ashen and thin.

“Carl. Grimes.”

The figure, after a moment of pause, tossed a granola bar at the boy— at Carl. They watched as he lazily tried to grab the bar but weighed down by exhaustion and fatigue, he could do little else beside look at the wrapper.

Louder, at least slightly more so than the first time, the figure spoke up. “‘M Ten Thousand.”

And with both boys now acquainted, they began down a road that would lead them into dozens of impossible situations. Carl, injures, and heaving on the roof of a building with no weapons, and Ten Thousand, the sharpshooter with a conscious, together found peace as night enveloped the world.

“I’ll watch tonight,” Ten Thousand added. “You need to sleep. You’re injured.” But as he looked to little Carl, the boy was already asleep; his fingers were still gripping the granola bar.

—————————

Carl would wake up the next morning, not to the sun on his face, but to soft ministrations on his arm. Groaning about being awoken from his slumber, he cracked open his eyes.

The figure— Ten Thousand, his mind supplied—was wrapping something around his forearm with great care. He seemed unbothered by the fact that Carl was waking up, and didn’t even spare him a glance. Carl took this moment to really look at his counterpart, and the one thing he felt in his bones was that Ten Thousand was just like him.

He was young—not as young as Carl, but no more than two years older—and wore a pair of goggles on his head like a crown. Pale colored eyes stayed focused on their work as he scrunched up his nose in concentration. It looked like it had been broken a couple times, based on the slightly crooked angle it sat at. And while Carl and his group opted for more casual attire, Ten Thousand seemed to go overboard; he wore long sleeves with a t-shirt over top of it, and a vest strapped to his chest. The pants he wore were cargo, but were cinched at the bottoms, and tucked into his boots. Gloves too, were a part of his attire, including the scarf that wrapped around his throat and covered most of his head. (It did nothing to hide the greasy, black-as-night hair that was plastered to his forehead)

“You said your name was Ten Thousand, right?” Carl asked.

The boy flicked his eyes to Carl’s and nodded his head slightly, finally pausing in his task.

“That’s not a name, that’s a number.”

Apparently that was the right thing to say because Ten Thousand’s face lifted a little. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it certainly looked better on him that a scowl.

“It’s how many Z’s I’ll kill,” he piped up. “If it’s too long for a kid like you, my friends used to call me 10k.” And with that said, he tugged on the kid’s arm, and let go.

The ‘thing’ he’d been working on was a a wrap for Carl’s arm, covering the area that the walker had grabbed. Of course, he hadn’t gotten to look at it, but from the way the muscles in his arm were shifting, he must’ve had one hell of a bruise. He pulled himself into a sitting position, to better prod and marvel at the bandage work, when something small hit him in the chest.

He let out a small ‘oof’ in surprise, before picking it up where it landed in his lap. It looked like some sort of sports pad, but not like any you’d buy in a store.

“Put it ‘round your bandage. It’ll keep you from get’in banged up more,” 10k told. He reached into one of the various bags and pulled out an apple, in response to which, Carl’s mouth started watering. He made an exaggerated gesture towards Carl, pointing mostly to the ground beside him. “And eat your breakfast, we ain’t stayin’ here long.”

Untouched beside him was a (slightly crushed) granola bar he vaguely remembered failing to catch the night before. He grabbed the wrapper and despite his dad’s voice saying _don’t eat it all at once_, he chowed down. Poor thing didn’t even stand a chance.

“Thank you for this,” Carl blurted out.

With a chiding tsk (and maybe, maybe, the smallest hint of a smile), 10k faced him. “Don’t thank me yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> All comments, kudos, and bookmarks are a blessing!! Thank you for reading! I’m gonna try to update once a week, AT LEAST once bi-weekly. 
> 
> Thank you once again!


End file.
